


Language Lessons, 8: mokita (1200 words)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [8]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-06
Updated: 2005-03-06
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 8: mokita (1200 words)

  
  
It was certainly grand to set foot on the pale, unswaying beach of the island; to gaze up at the forested hills -- so _green_ , a hue which had not (apart from the occasional spot of mildew on his possessions, and the rot that had consumed most of the cheese before _they_ could eat it) been any part of Jack Shaftoe's visual environment for some months now -- and wonder what secrets lay hid in the mountain's high jungly heart; to see faces that he did not know, though 'twas fair to say that they were all dark-skinned and grinning, and even less trustworthy than a pirate crew when it came to leaving your valuables lying around; Jack'd just seen one of them, a strong young man, swim ashore -- the _Black Pearl_ being moored, close inshore, to two tall trees, so steep was the drop-off -- holding a sack of wormy meal above him, though to be fair he'd traded a massive net of vegetable produce -- fruits all strangely formed and brightly coloured, green stalks, pale roots, striped leaves wide as plates -- all unfamiliar to Jack, but likely what they'd be eating for the next week or so; it'd be a variation from gruel and fish, though that in itself was better than hungry-to-bed, a delicacy that had been Jack's lot all too often: but that stale phrase, hungry-to-bed, made him think of bed, and thus of Jack Sparrow, and Sparrow's hands and mouth and cock all devoting theirselves to Jack's pleasure; he grinned, and then had to explain to the nearest pouting female that he was smiling at a memory, and not at the sight of a bold young maid ('maid, my arse', thought Jack privately, chuckling) and that, no thank you, he wasn't interested today, but perhaps one of his mates ... well, there was no shortage of offers, and the girl disappeared quick enough, leaving Jack in amused wonderment at his own sea-change: for he'd never thought to come ashore, welcomed by such fair and feminine company, and yet feel nothing: true, word of his Distinguishing Feature had preceded him to many a European town, and inclined the local womenfolk to consider him a Gentleman rather than a Rake (a classification regrettably borne out by his, perforce chaste, behaviour), but the point was that he _had_ still sought feminine company, even when it was of no practical use to him (and that, as it turned out, was simply because they weren't trying hard enough, or possibly, if one were being charitable, a lack of Education: Jack Sparrow had never had any difficulty in provoking all manner of _practical_ reactions from Jack's willing corpus, and Jack loved him for it) and now, it seemed, Jack had no remaining in the Fair Sex, for love of the remarkably  unfair (and wickedly cunning, though visually delightful) Jack Sparrow, who -- Jack now saw -- was laughing and smiling with a bevy of females, one of 'em with a garland of pink and white flowers adorning her bosom, which garland she whipped off and presented to Sparrow; it sat nicely over his linen shirt, and Jack's exasperation (and, let it be said, jealousy; for though he was sure that he had Sparrow's heart, there were other organs that were wont to stray) was tempered with sheer joy in being able to gaze on Jack Sparrow thus, a wooden beaker (no doubt full of some evil indigenous concoction) in his hand, a bare-breasted girl at his side, smirking in a way that told Jack that his love was well aware of the scrutiny bent on him: now, Jack Shaftoe wanted to rush over and tear the flowers from Sparrow's neck (though he'd bet they crushed prettily, against bare skin) and lay claim to him, but perhaps that was not the fashionable thing, here; there was no point in upsetting the natives, not when they needed food and water and a night's carousing, not when they were hundreds of miles from the next tiny speck of land ... and yet, Jack missed already the warmth of Sparrow's skin, and the speaking silence of his look; he sat himself down under a tree with a beaker of that local brew -- a pungent, slimy draught, but he could feel it burning warmly, like rum but not, down into his gut -- and gave himself up to solitude (another novelty for a man who'd spent months afloat on a little wooden world) and self-pity; and was wallowing most enjoyably in the latter when a dark shape came between him and the bright beach, and a voice said, low and intense, "what's amiss?"; Jack Sparrow, of course, and his presence and demeanour told Jack how little he'd been stirred by the company he'd found, which made Jack smile; "I missed you," he said simply, not caring to elaborate on his thoughts, and Sparrow smiled and leaned in close and kissed him, sweet and simple, on the hinge of his jaw, and said, "I missed you too: and, Jack, I'm sorry for those women all over me, but they wouldn't listen; d'you know, there's a word I had from that Frenchman in the Canaries, who sailed this way some years ago --"; "another word!" cried Jack, laughing, "I declare you're full of 'em, Captain; or full of something, anyway," and Sparrow bent close and murmured, "I've told 'em you're my friend, my match, my mate, but they haven't the faintest idea what I mean, and clearly they don't understand what I _say_ : but everyone on the ship _knows_ it, what we are to one another, what we _do_ \-- and will do, this very evening, if you like -- to one another, though they never mention it: it's **mokita** , the thing that everyone knows but no one says," and Jack, always happy to come to swift understanding where Sparrow was concerned, said, "ah, like Stone's _problem_?" at which Sparrow smirked and nodded, "and," went on Jack, "like Burton and Cooper?" and Sparrow nodded again, impatient, and leaned in and kissed Jack properly, long and deep and loving, never mind that there were people all around 'em: which was, noted Jack hazily, almost definitely the point, not that he was complaining at the opportunity to push his fingers into Sparrow's knotty hair, to kiss him with unspoken promise and affirmation, to tilt his hips up invitingly as Sparrow folded himself to kneel across Jack's thighs, and to savour, in one smug nook of his brain, the giggling complaints -- did it count as **mokita** if everyone was talking about it? -- of the nearest clutch of garlanded girls, the jovial cries of their menfolk, and the cheerful obscenities of the _Pearl_ 's company, who appreciated their captain's absence from the market (for Jack was pleased to be living proof that Jack Sparrow's charms could not be resisted by anyone, man or maid, that he fixed his eye upon): and oh, Jack was utterly uninterested in resisting Sparrow's curling agile tongue, the explorations of his fingers, the swell of his prick, the heat in his dark gaze; Jack gave himself up to it all, quite wordlessly.


End file.
